Waning Moon

There’s a stranger on the subway
who tells me to smile.
I would, but I’ve got the wrong mouth on.

I avoid eye contact.
Try not to inhale too deep.
Get off as soon as possible.

These teeth are too blunt.
Everything is grind, grind, grind.

Too many people. Can’t think. Can’t breathe.
Too much smoke, exhaust, anxiety hanging in the air.
Instinct says run. I clamp down, keep walking.

Dodge the crowds. Get to work.
A desk. A keyboard. Nimble fingers.
Numbers. Fractions. A ticking clock.

It’s like a hangover.
The moon wanes, and I’m left on the edge
of molar and fang.


Werewolves seem to be a recurring theme for me--the concept female werewolves, especially, feels compelling. There's something about the concept of something strong and wild and fierce and hungry lurking under one's skin, waiting to escape.

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